


The Deepest Desire

by Virodeil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Thor (Movies)
Genre: (implied) – Freeform, A journey of slow healing, Acceptance, Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings in Author’s Note, Age Difference, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alien Flora & Fauna, Alien Food, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Language, Alien Mythology/Religion, Alien Rituals, Alien Technology, Gen, Harry Potter Leaves the Wizarding World, Here come some feels, Jotnar Politics, Jotunn | Frost Giant, More tags to be added or edited, Other, POV First Person, POV Harry Potter, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, Second Chances, Separated at Birth, Sharing a Bed, Single-Gendered Species, a lot of headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29557971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Being almost sucked soulless by a Dementor not once but twice makes a much greater, scarier impact for Harry. Summer 1995 is the last straw. An escape from it all is the only viable option, it feels. And if, along the way, the deepest desire turns out not to be only a temptation from the Mirror of Erised from long ago? Well, it’s the greatest bonus one can get!
Relationships: Dobby & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Original Character(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29
Collections: The Land of Ice and Snow





	The Deepest Desire

The walls of Privet Drive number four feel very, very flimsy, now, while they were always confining before.

Dumbledore said I would be _safe_ here.

He lied.

I’ve never been safe here. But at least I was never threatened with soullessness _here_.

Not until this evening, that is.

And _everyone_ wants me to stay _here_ even after _that_.

How if the Dementors come again? What _can_ I do if they come again if I can’t do magic? I don’t want to be soulless! My soul and my body and my mind are the only things that I really own, because the others are so easy to take.

Until I was eleven and the Dursleys got too frightened of the wizards, I didn’t even really own my body.

Well, I _believed_ it all, at any rate, before Hogwarts; before the troll and the obstacle course and Voldemort-in-Quirrel in first year, before Lockhart and the Acromantulae and the Basilisk in second year, before the Dementors and Professor Lupin turned werewolf in third year, before Barty Crouch Jr. and the Tourney and Voldemort in fourth year, and before the Dementors _again_ just now.

And now, the Ministry said I’m going to be expelled from Hogwarts, also get my wand snapped.

No help there. Not like summer two years ago.

But two summers ago, a reembodied Voldemort _wasn’t_ in the prowl.

Ha. I’m going to lose my home, and a way to do magic, so most likely my life if Voldemort or even a particularly bloodthirsty ordinary crook gets a hold on me, and also _my friends_.

But friends don’t ask – _order_ – a friend to stay put in an unsafe place, don’t they?

Will they still be my friends if I go away from here? Will they just return me here if I tell them I’m going away? Where _can_ I go away to, anyway? I can’t go to magical places by magical means, or I’ll end up like after I accidentally inflated Aunt Marge – _worse_ than that, even, with how antagonistic the Ministry is this summer with me and Dumbledore. But if not, _where_ and _how_? I’ve got only a few Galleons and Sickles and Knuts with me, no Muggle currency of any denomination, and a fifteen-year-old travelling alone without Muggle identification often attracts unwanted attention, anyhow, especially if the said fifteen-year-old wishes to leave the country.

And I’m _not_ safe in this country, at present, sadly. It’d be too easy for the Ministry to track me down if I stayed anywhere in the United Kingdom or nearby. They can even get the Muggle government to help, like they did with Sirius.

I’m not going to be safe if I’m me, too. I must change _everything_ , somehow.

Damn. So many things to do, to know, to act on, and I’ve got nobody to help me achieve _all_ that, let alone by tonight.

Well, no, I’ve got _somebody_ that I can call, really. But that somebody is sometimes too… “eager”… in making me safe from danger. Second year, case in point.

Calling him here might be considered as magic done by me, too, and rile up the Ministry even more.

Still, if I want to be out of here as soon as possible and _succeed_ doing that….

“Dobby?”

A small popping sound heralds the appearance of a metre-tall, pale-green-skinned, pencil-like nosed, tennis-ball-like-eyed, bat-like-eared being wearing a tower of knitted hats, a Hogwarts tea towerl and mismatched gaudy socks, who immediately takes a low, sweeping bow and squeaks, “The Great Harry Potter Sir needs Dobby? Dobby bes honour to help!”

I shush him, citing that this meeting is to be truly hush-hush, but I can’t help the big, toothy grin stretching my lips from end to end.

Dobby _came_. And he immediately _offered to help_!

And, better yet, there’s _no_ additional letter – or worse, a visit – from the Ministry!

I ask him to sit on the chair… and immediately have to shush him again, before he _truly_ bawls out his ecstacy and adulations of me. “If you want to help me, you must be silent,” I insist for the second time.

I tell him what happened this evening, then, and what I would like to do and know, and remind him once more that the only individuals that can know about this are _only_ the both of us.

“Dobby cans get money from the Great Harry Potter Sir’s vaults,” my self-assigned helper says, then, tentatively. “But Dobby must binds to Master Harry before that, or the goblinses won’t open them for Dobby.”

I shake my head. “You wanted to be free, Dobby,” I point out. “You don’t want to be free anymore?”

It’s his turn to shake his head, now, vigorously. “Dobby likes free,” he whispers, as if it’s a dirty secret. “But the Great Harry Potter Sir not safe here. Dobby does _anything_ for Master Harry. Even to binds himself. The Great Harry Potter Sir must bes a great master.”

“No no no no no,” I insist, waving my hand just as vigorously. “No, Dobby. Your freedom is _never_ worth my safety, you got that? Not your life either. – We shall find another way. This does mean I can’t pay for your help yet, though. If you want to back out, you can do it now, before it’s too late. But please tell nobody – not even a portrait or yourself – about this.”

And, to that, Dobby jumps to his feet with a fierce expression and wet eyes. “Dobby bes free. Dobby bes free,” he says, repeats, as if just to himself. “Dobby bes free… and Dobby cans do with it what Dobby wants.”

He gives me a questioning look, then, as if asking me to confirm the last statement.

I nod, and swallow hard. I’m suddenly so scared. He looks so vulnerable right now. I’m afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing and ending up breaking him. I don’t know if even agreeing to his assessment of himself will–.

“Dobby bes free… and Dobby chooses the Great Harry Potter Sir as his master.” And the tiny, skinny frame of the house-elf rushes to bear-hug my legs, racked with sobs that are barely muffled by my knees, even as something warm and trusting and vulnerable washes over something in me, reaching out, tying itself to me.

I barely hold back my own sobs. But my cheeks are thoroughly wet in seconds, all the same.

Dobby has just given me his most prized possession: his _freedom_. And he did that _freely_ , for _me_.

I don’t deserve such a priceless, invaluable gift.

I tell him just that.

And we end up clinging to each other: a pair of broken beings being vulnerable together.

There’s no time to wallow in the moment, though. I’m not getting safer the longer I stay here, and Dobby has just sacrificed _his freedom_ to help me achieve some semblance of safety. Dithering would spit on such sacrifice.

So, the moment the both of us recover a little, I fish out some paper and writing tools – of which there are _many_ in the broken, disused and unused things Dudley left in this room for years – and start a list of necessities.

Surprisingly… or maybe not, since he used to belong to a magical household, after all… Dobby contributes lots of good ideas and items, such as a spare wand or two, a wizarding tent, a portable-flat trunk for redundancy, complete wizarding survival and exploration kits, and a mokeskin pouch to store everything that can be worn as pendant on a necklace.

Well, he got most of the ideas from Malfoy Jr. during the prat’s “adventurous phase,” but, this time, I don’t mind. Ideas are still ideas.

I’m worried about what Dobby considers “good,” though, and also how long the list is becoming.

“Looks like I’m going to have to go with you, Dobs,” I sigh, as the minutes tick by and the list is _still_ unfinished, though it’s taken up half of a regularly sized Muggle school notebook.

“What about, Dobby looks at Master Harry’s vaults and the Alley, then Master Harry comes?” bargains the house-elf – _my_ house-elf – in a timid voice, quite a downgrade from the cheerful and confident timbre he’s begun to take up in this impromptu planning session.

I sigh again. “How many times have I told you to call me just Harry?”

Unfortunately, in this particular case, Dobby has grown quite a sturdy spine.

And he has mastered the art of evading my insistence to call me by my name.

In the end, we agree that he will scout out Diagon Alley and my vault at Gringotts, buy a mokeskin-pouch pendant and a standard portable flat-trunk, and stock up the trunk with necessities. Then we will revise the list according to what’s the most necessary and the most doable.

I’m not idle, though, while I’m waiting for Dobby to finish his not-so-short errand. I don’t think I’ll take most of my things, as I’m not enrolled in Hogwarts anymore and wearing Dudley’s castoffs will only attract _more_ attention, but it doesn’t mean I needn’t pack up. I may not use my wand anymore, but it’s still _my_ wand; and, of course, the photo album, the Cloak and the Firebolt are a must to bring, as well as treats for Hiedwig, though not her cage.

Well, and, shabby as it is, this room actually holds a _treasure trove_ of potentially useful items, both for my own use and for trading and bartering. Better yet, none of the Dursleys care about them, except that they no longer clutter any other space in the house. And space isn’t a bother for the magical folk, as Dobby expounded while we’re making the to-buy and to-do lists.

Want not, waste not.

Dobby returns while I am fitting unused notebooks and drawing pads into the terrarium that used to be the home of Dudley’s poor tortoise, after gathering all the writing tools and miscellaneous small items into a gaudily colourful backpack that Aunt Marge gave Dudley when he was five. Dudley’s big remote-controlled tank, whose body is a little dented and whose main “gun” is broken, is parked by my legs and attracts Dobby’s attention right away.

No wonder. With some modification, it could act as a fun ride for the small being.

It gives me an idea, actually. But it can wait for later. There are more urgent things to do and to know and to act on at present.

“What’s Diagon like, Dobs?” I prod the house-elf, after activating the mokeskin pouch – by pricking a droplet of blood into its mouth – and inspecting the inside of the trunk cursorily. “And my vault?”

And, “Diagon Alley bes half close, Master Harry,” the house-elf begins. “Vertic Alley too. But Mort Alley opens, and Knockturn Alley. Master Harry best goes to Mort, Dobby thinks; many Muggle things there, runs with magic. Dobby knows little about it.” Former family hates it. Full of Muggleborn. But Master Harry cans go to Occasion too to get complete kits for travel.”

He fidgets with the hem of his tea towel, then, in a brighter tone and mien, he adds, “Goblinses says not care what Master Harry does with Master Harry’s things and money, long as Master Harry got key. Dobby fetches key from Missus Molly and checks vault. Dobby finds things behind the money. The flat-trunk bes from there, and many other trunks. Dobby puts _everythings_ in trunks. Then Dobby changed some Galleons and Sickles for all the Muggle money Grings has. Master Harry wants to see?”

I shake my head. “No time, Dobby. But thanks for emptying my vault and exchanging some money. Now, is there space left in one of those trunks? I supposed they’re all expanded?”

Dobby bobs his head excitedly. “Lots of different trunks, old good trunks!” he whispers confidingly. “Many full already before Dobby got things in them! But some has empty place still. Master Harry wants these in the trunks?” He raises his hands at the pile of Dudley’s unwanted and unused things arranged round my feet.

“No no please,” I hurriedly say. “I’ll do it myself, the Muggle way. I don’t want to be in more trouble with the Ministry. Last time they blamed me for your hovering pudding.”

The house-elf droops, ears and all, and fat teardrops begin to roll down his cheeks and spindly nose. “Dobby bes sorry,” he whispers forlornly. “Dobby bes bad elf.”

I grab him – unfortunately by the ear – before he can rush to the table and, most likely, try to brain himself. “No punishing yourself, Dobby,” I hiss, now transfering my grip to one of his spindly arms. “You’re good for nobody if you keep punishing yourself. And I’m not Malfoy, you know. You make me feel like Malfoy when you try to punish yourself. I hate it.” I’m laying it on thick, but I’m neither sorry nor embarrassed for doing so in this case.

“No attracting attention too, please,” I sigh tiredly when he opens his mouth, looking about to bawl his adulations again, with how adoring his gaze is, directed right at me. Now I’m beginning to regret bringing this excitable, half-insane house-elf with me….

Fortunately, after some more wrangling, both verbally and physically, with the bonus of him confessing that he imitated my signature – whatever it is – to lift Aunt Petunia’s pudding that time, I manage to have Dobby magic away my loot into wherever he keeps the other trunks. Afterwards… well, I chicken out. I’m too mentally drained to wait and meet the Dursleys face to face for the last time. So I just write them a letter – _a long, long letter_ , accidentally – and ask them to burn it after reading it, before giving it to Dobby to be put on the kitchen table and safeguarded only for the Dursleys’ eyes.

And then, off we go, looting the tool shed for more unwanted items before Dobby pops us away directly to one of the junctures between Diagon and other alleys, which I thought were only gaps between shops that would lead to nowhere.

Well, I’m officially out of Privet Drive number four, now. Hopefully it’s _really_ for the last time. And, hopefully as well, things won’t end up as badly as my brief flight the summer before my third year.


End file.
